Honor Among Spies
by EJ3
Summary: A one-shot about a night patrol that goes very wrong. Re-posting an old story that I took down a while ago.


Honor Among Spies

His first impulse when he heard the twig snap was to turn and run. He actually took a step back before his sense of duty kicked in. Or perhaps it was fear of the Eastern Front. Whatever the motivation, he advanced cautiously towards a clump of bushes. "Achtung! Halt!"

The shot rang out and a burst of fire ripped into him. As he fell, he heard shouts and people running. He fought to remain conscious as hooded figures gathered and towered over him. He struggled to remember the word that Oberfeldwebel Schultz had taught all the guards. "Surr…ren…der…"

"What are you waiting for? Finish him off."

"He's just a boy."

"He's a damn Hitler youth."

"Nein." He shook his head adamantly, though the motion made him ill. "Not Hitler youth. Drafted."

"He must be one of the guards from Stalag 13."

"All the more reason to kill him."

"No. Leave him."

He tried to focus on the blurry images above him. The speakers were Germans, members of the shadowy Underground that tormented agents like Hochstetter. At least one of them –the one arguing to spare him –was a woman. Part of him wanted to laugh at the horrendous irony: after two years guarding enemy prisoners, he was about to be executed by his own countrymen.

"Wait until Papa Bear comes. Let him decide what to do."

"Ja. What does it matter if we kill him now or later? Let Papa Bear have him."

He held his breath as the group disbanded and he was left alone. He tried to rise but he was overwhelmed by a wave of dizziness. He collapsed onto the ground and stared at the stars, wondering how long it would be before anyone at Stalag 13 missed him. He wasn't due to report in for another three hours. Perhaps the Kommandant would send out reinforcements who would stumble over him. Or perhaps the prisoners would escape and the tracking dogs would smell his blood.

"Langenscheidt! What are you doing out here?"

He turned weakly to the voice. "Oberst Hogan? Surr…en…der?"

"You can't surrender to me." Hogan laughed gently. "I surrendered to you guys."

"Please…" He stammered in broken English. "I don't want to die."

"Let me see." Hogan knelt over him, tugged open his uniform. "It's not so bad. Just a shoulder wound. You'll be fine."

"Please…."

"Quiet."

He bit off a startled gasp as Hogan placed a hand over his eyes. He could hear the American whispering to someone, but the muffled responses were too low to even determine nationality. After a moment the hand was removed and he was once again alone with Hogan.

"Ok, let's see what we can do with that wound." Hogan fashioned a bandage from his scarf, applied pressure to his shoulder. "You've lost some blood, but the docs can fix you up. I'll get you back to Schultz as soon as I can."

"But what are you doing here, Herr Oberst?" He reached for Hogan's flannel shirt. "You're out of uniform."

"Actually, Cpl, I'm not here at all. You're hallucinating."

"Ha…lu…?"

"It's a dream. Traum."

He winced as Hogan propped him up against a tree. The American checked his bandage and then began pacing in a tight formation around him, his confiscated field rifle over his shoulder.

"Herr Oberst?"

"Hmmm?"

"In this dream…do you shoot me?"

Hogan chuckled softly. "Nein. I just keep you here for an hour or so, then Sgt. Schultz miraculously appears and takes you to a doctor."

"Danke, Herr Oberst."

Hogan nodded. "Now close your eyes and enjoy your dream."

"Ja." He did as he was ordered, certain that he had already seen more than was healthy. There had long been rumors that Hogan was more than the model cowed prisoner that the Kommandant paraded before his superiors. It was well-known that guards that abused the prisoners ended up on the Eastern Front and few doubted that the transfers were instigated by Hogan, not Klink. For himself, he cared not to know too much. It was only through the intercession of his highly-placed uncle that he was stationed at Stalag 13 instead of dying in the snow like most of his friends. He did his best not to anger anyone who could put him on a train for Stalingrad.

The monotony of Hogan's pacing lulled him into a feeling of security. He was somehow reminded of his favorite guard duty – 'protecting' the Kommandant during his chess games with the American. The two combatants spent hours sparring mentally and verbally while he leaned against the wall and daydreamed of happier days watching his father and grandfather engage in the same battle. Whenever the Kommandant was called away, Hogan could be counted on to slip him a cigar or a quick glass of schnapps, in exchange for not noticing whatever happened to fall into the American's pocket. He'd begun to believe that nothing could hurt him while he was at the Stalag. All it had taken was one patrol in the woods to prove him wrong.

"Oberst."

"What? Something wrong?"

"Nein. I just…I wondered…Have you ever…when you were with the Gestapo…were you ever…?"

"Afraid? I was terrified?"

"Ja? Nothing seems to bother you."

"Your Fuhrer bothers me." Hogan settled onto the ground beside him. "And I'd rather take a cyanide capsule than go through another Gestapo interrogation."

"But you're outside the camp. Why don't you escape?"

"First of all, I'm not even here. You're dreaming, remember?" Hogan waited for a reluctant nod. "Anyway, there_ is_ something that frightens me more than tangling with the Gestapo again –Hitler winning the war."

"But you would be returned to your country if the Allies admitted defeat."

"I doubt that. I suspect I would just disappear into an unmarked grave."

"Herr Oberst…" He was cut off as Hogan quickly covered his mouth and his eyes. He strained to understand the hushed voices that soon surrounded him. He thought he detected an English accent, but he couldn't be sure. He heard someone trip nearby and a muffled exclamation, then the area was silent again.

"Sorry about that." Hogan removed his hands. "Schultz will be here soon."

"Are the others still here?" He couldn't suppress a shiver.

"It's ok. I'll hang around until Schultz stumbles across you."

"Langenscheidt! Where are you?"

"Speak of the devil." Hogan shook his head at the sound of Schultz blundering through the woods. "For Pete's sake. There's a full moon. What's he need – a sign from above?" Hogan flipped on his flashlight and waved it in the air. "Call him."

"Oberfeldwebel Schultz! Over here!"

"I'm coming! Don't worry! "Schultz plowed through the brush. "Oh! There you are! You've been hurt!"

"Ja, by the Underground." He groaned as Schultz examined the wound. "Oberst Hogan saved me."

"Nein. Hogan is playing cards at his barracks." Schultz took off his coat and bundled it around him. "You're delirious. I'll take you to the doctor."

"But he's right there…." He stared behind Schultz, saw only his rifle hanging from a tree branch and the flashlight wedged in a knothole. "But I saw him. He stayed with me until you came."

"Nein." Schultz helped him to his feet. "Listen to me, Karl. Hogan is a prisoner. He does not roam around in the woods meeting the Underground and rescuing injured guards. You were dreaming. Is that clear?"

"Ja. I was dreaming. I won't mention it again." He bit his lip to keep from crying out as Schultz hoisted him over his shoulder. In the shadows, he was sure he saw a figure retreating into the woods. He whispered a silent thank you as Schultz carried him to safety.


End file.
